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Mjolnir Is Not On Your Minivan

Say you’d just bought a new old minivan. You already had a minivan in your family, but you decided to add a second. Why would you do such a thing, and what’s with the hammer?

I owned a Toyota Prius for about two years. It was one of the newest cars I’ve ever owned, and it seduced me with features. Not having to use a key saves your valuable hand space for carrying bananas, drinks and newspapers as you lever open the door with a foot. Not having to physically put a key into the car to make it go means you can hook a transponder to your belt loop and dramatically reduce the chance that you’ll lose access to your car without also losing access to your trousers.

The rear view camera made life with limited rotational spine mobility a breeze, but the pure vanilla blandness of the car sapped away the will to live. The economic tiny powertrain made for safe and predictably dull driving. The only fun you could have was working the suspension around the one roundabout in a 4 mile radius. Life in a Prius is comfortable gradual death. But without the sensation of excitement that imminent death affords. A slow regenerative brake into a full stop at the end of a dawdling life.

So I sold that and bought a minivan. V6 power. Gold colouring. The admission of defeat. A different kind of practicality to a Prius. A different kind of death. One that can take seven people with it. At least you can haul stuff in an Odyssey, and when you’re about to leave the country, hauling stuff might be useful.

And if you’re going to drive a gold minivan, I figure you need a giant Nordic decal on the front. And not just so that you don’t stumble in a parental stupor into the wrong one. So that people know who’s coming.

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